


Hand Of The Father

by EclipsedImpala (LoveDrift)



Series: Fearless: A Tale of the Infinite, Immeasurable Strength of Dean Winchester [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BAMF Cas, Blood and Violence, Cas and Sam are friends, Castiel and Sam patch Dean up, Dean Whump, Dean Winchester Realizes Feelings For Castiel, Dean just keeps getting hurt, Dean really should have stayed in bed, Drunk John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Flashbacks, Genital Torture, Homophobia, Homophobic John, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermic Dean Winchester, John Finds Out, John REALLY does NOT like Castiel, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, John is a drunk dick, Just as, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pansexual Dean Winchester, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Protective Sam Winchester, Resurrected John, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Violence, Sick Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, i guess?, with Cas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2019-11-26 15:51:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18182606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveDrift/pseuds/EclipsedImpala
Summary: Dean gets hurt on a hunt. Par for the course. Am I right? Only difference? Dear ol'Dad, John has been back for a while and really doesn't like Castiel all that much. Worse than that? John really, REALLY doesn't like how Dean and Castiel look at each other.And act around each other. So John does what John does best:Hang out with Jack and Jim.And guess who has to go fetch a drunk, pissed off John Winchester from the bar?Yep.Dean.Injured with a bad case of hypothermia, Dean.Awesome.Guess what happens when Dad duddin' wanna leave the bar?





	1. "Papa Don't Preach"

**Author's Note:**

> So I don't know what happened with Chapter 3/4. I honestly thought I hadn't posted it. Chapter 4 was the same as 3, but different in some places. Chapter 4 is now chapter 3,as I deleted the old one.

This is so not what Dean had wanted to do tonight. 

 

Nope.

 

Sooooo not what he wanted to do.

 

And yet, here he is.

 

On his merry fuckin’ way to fetch dear old shitfaced Dad from a bar. 

 

 

Ha.

 

Great.

 

Awesome.

 

Thanks soooo much.

 

 

Not like Dean had wanted to sleep or anything. 

 

Why on Earth would he want that when he could be half asleep rushing out of his motel room in just his t-shirt, jeans, and boots.

 

In winter.

 

With snow on the ground.

 

Rushing because the motel manager kicked, after knocking forever apparently, the door open, “Dumbass. Your damn door,” Dean mocks.

 

A beat.

 

Realization sluggishly catches up with his sleep deprived brain, turning his already cold and fever flushed cheeks an even brighter, rosy red. Could be the exertion too, he thinks. 

 

Probably not. 

 

“…Aw. Shit. Maaaaan. He’s gonna charge me for that!” 

 

So yeah, the dickhead manger kicked in the door and then just stood THERE. In the _doorway_ , watching Dean until his patience ran out. Which, of course, happened to be just when Dean had finished stumbling into the absolute bare _minimum_ of clothing. 

 

Ya know, enough to be respectable. 

 

Dean rolls his eyes, and wiggles his hands further into the pockets of his ripped up Levis. 

 

“‘Cause, ya know, it’s not like I’m half asleep or anything... on a cold ass freak’n winter night having the time of my life traipsing on down to the fucking bar to get my asshole of a Dad, who I KNOW is completely wasted, and, more’n likely still angry, no, fucking _furious_ , cuz, why not, right? It’s me. God damn it." He throws his head back and growls, breath furiously expelling upward in violent swirls. He shivers, head lolling back down, wincing as the movement tugs on his patchwork of stitching. "And awesome. I’m talking to myself. Sarcastically too. Awesome." 

 

Dean shakes his head and trudges onward with a grimace of agony writ all over his face. “Not like I wanted to freak’n sleep or anything! Noooo, nooooo. Or be friggin’ warm! Sonofabitch!” He throws his arms open wide and tilts his head back again.

 

Winces again.

 

Growls.

 

Talking to himself. Just great. 

 

“Out loud." _Well of course out loud, ya moron; That’s generally how talking to yourself goes_. 

 

“Complete with gesturing?” He makes the ‘MEEsha?’ face at himself and jams his hands back into his pockets. _Well, yeeeeaaaah, ya are waving your arms around, ya know_.

 

So yeah.

 

Awesome.

 

Thank God… _Or thank Chuck?_

 

Frowns in thought. 

 

"Shits too confusing anymore," The hunter shakes the thoughts from his head. 

 

Damn he’s cold! A violent shiver rips right through Dean to lay siege upon the marrow of his bones. 

 

But no matter. He is totally amped anyway: The bar is within walking distance from the motel Cas and him, Sam, and their Dad are slumming it at. 

 

Okay, so maybe walking distance isn’t all that great. 

 

Yeah. 

 

Annnnnd he’s not exactly amped anymore.

 

‘Cuz walkin’.

 

So. 

 

 _Not_ awesome then.

 

Dean kicks at a mound of black snow;The brutal impact fountains the light icy shards, while the heavier chunks skitter away in retreat. Green, blood shot eyes track the chunk across the street, and Dean can't help glaring menacingly at the salt coating the asphalt. Man he hates salt. Hates, hates, fervently _hates_ road salt. Just the _thought_ of his girl, Baby, being attacked-- _assaulted_ \-- with that cancer has his blood boiling. It has him so enraged he refuses to acknowledge that glorious pun. “UGH! I hate the friggn’ winter!” He kicks at another crispy pile of filth. Winces. Groans in pain. Grumbling and sneering at the oh-so-cheerful protest his body is forcing him to remember: 'Hey, dickhead! You’re fucking really hurt, and tired, and cold. Should be in bed. With that angel of yours.'

 

Damn it. Gesturing again.

 

Hands: 'Hiya pockets! Member me?’

 

Shakes his head. _Cas..._

 

Where was he?

 

Oh.

 

Cheerfully lamenting on a midnight stroll.

 

Through snow.

 

Dirty snow.

 

And _salt_.

 

Wounded.

 

 _Freak’n hate the damn cold, man. And salt. Definitely abhor salt._ "Yeah-yeah, totally aware of the irony, thank you very much."

 

“Finally,” Dean opens his arms in greeting, halo of misery dissipating to relief, then resignation, as he carefully weaves a path through the parking lot and around salt encrusted cars, _Wince._ toward the bar.

 

“Huh,” Despite himself, Dean grins, pausing a moment. It's really not to prolong the inevitable confrontation he'll no doubt find inside _Nope, definitely not, ‘cause’M’not a kid and scared or anything._ ,but to admire how freakin’ _cool_ the waist high snowbanks flanking the path to the door _glow blue_ , courtesy of the neon _Budlight_ sign. 

 

“Awesome.” Huge grin. He cups his freezing hands over his mouth, continuing his admiration of neon illuminated snowbanks, while breathing hot air into his hands, warming ‘em up a bit so he can feel the door handle. 

 

Dean finally submits to closing the remaining few feet and enters the bar. He stomps snow--and salt--off his boots, before leaving the sanctity of the entryway. Once again, though, he pauses. Contemplates how the entryway is not big enough to be a foyer, or how alcove is not a good description for it either. 

 

Wasting time again. Moving on. 

 

 _Really shoulda worn a coat. Idiot. I am an idiot._

 

"Brrrrbbbb," Dean wildly shakes off a full body shudder, absolutely frozen. Casting a wary, cursory glance around, Dean absently rubs his hands over his arms in an attempt for warmth. Stepping further into the lions den, his keen eyes narrowing to zero in on his query: Dear ol’Dad. 

 

Not like it’s hard flushing out his father.

 

Never was.

 

Wasn't hard when he was five, either.

 

Shakes his head.

 

What is hard, though, is the lump of fear stuck in his throat when he spots his father.

 

Despite being long past four years old, the sight of his father cemented at a bar pounding however-the-fuck-many beers, following it up with shot after(god knows how many) shot, still fills him with trepidation. 

 

So maybe he WAS prolonging the inevitable. 

 

_Can't really blame me, right?_

 

Without warning, Dean is hit with a nasty onslaught of memories: Fists laden with brass knuckles, belts and whips; kicks from steel-toed boots, vile insults, impossible rules, shame and failure, tubes down his throat, catheters, agony; shotguns and Bobby.

 

Just as sudden and rapid as the memories hit, they cease, leaving a sharp ringing in his ears and water instead of eyes. Dean's breath catches in his throat and he can't pull in enough air. He stands there drowning, gasping for air. _Calm down, dude. It's my ribs. It's the ribs. Focus. No big deal. Been there. Done that. Relax. Ribs...broken...can't ...expand... fully. Slow. Breathe. Focus. In and out. Easy. Fuck me._ The mantra works. He gets his air. _But,_ his broken ribs are still grinding with the sudden capriciousness of his diaphragm, and it leaves Dean nauseous, dizzy and frozen in place.

 

_Like I’m in fuck’n carbonite._

 

Dean’s on edge; Adrenal glands preparing for that inevitable confrontation. The _promise_ , of ‘Agony-by-Way-Of-John-Winchester’, is too real, and no way is Dean in fighting shape. As _if_ he would ever fight his Dad. He tried, once. Shortly before he went to Stanford for Sam’s help all those years ago. Never again. That had been _bad._

 

So bad, Dean had up ended up left for dead, then all alone in the Intensive Care Unit.

 

Hell, most of the time _not_ fighting back ended him there anyway. 

 

Damn it! He clenches his teeth, worries his bottom lip, jaw tensely flexing, wounds protesting aggressively.

 

 _But that can’t happen now, right? I’m a grown man_.

 

_Like you were when Daddy left you in ICU before you got your wittle brother to find your daddy. Pathetic._

 

_Shut it! Can’t happen!_

 

_You were a grown man when Sam left you for Stanford too. You weren’t a kid when Sammy left you for Flagstaff either._

 

_Shuddup. It’s different now!_

 

 _Keep telling yourself that, Dean. You know, way down deep what_ will _happen tonight. You fucked up. And you know it_.

 

Dean gives himself a mental shake and shoves down any and all protest from his body as he furthers inside. Well, he _tries_ to, anyway, but the thick fog of cigarette smoke and cheap cigars choking him are making it really fucking hard. As if the simple act of _breathing_ wasn’t hard enough, he now has to deal with this bullshit.

 

Bullshit that leads to coughing.

 

Coughing that leads to broken ribs being pummeled.

 

And that means a whole lotta fuckin' hurt.

 

Combine and shake with ice. 

 

Ha. He’ll be lucky if he only ends up with pneumonia. Pleurisy loves to skip along with that anytime he gets like this. 

 

Son.

 

Of.

 

A. 

 

Bitch. 

 

Pleurisy _and_ broken ribs?! Joy of joys.

 

God help him. Oh please no. Plea-- And there it is: He’s coughing. And getting looks. Just fucking AWESOME. 

 

Dean is good and pissed now. 

 

Terrified is more like it, that helpful little part of his brain supplies.

 

"Gotchya," Dean mummers. Furrowing his brow with a glare, Dean hardens his resolve.

 

Dad found: All the way at the end, back to a wall, eyes facing the entrance. Well, his Dad’s eyes _would_ have been facing the entrance, had they not have been gazing into his dear old friend: Jack.

 

Dad always could find the time for his friend Jack.

 

Could always find the _money_ for his friend Jack. 

 

Always. Best a’friends those two. Always had the time, the money, and the want. 

 

Couldn’t find it for food.

 

Couldn’t find it for clothes.

 

Couldn’t find it for school supplies. Or proper shelter. 

 

Surprising though, since Sammy needed those things. 

 

'You did too,' That sixteen year old at Sonny’s argues in his head.

 

(Ignoring.)

 

But then again,

 

Sammy was Dean’s job.

 

‘Take care’a Sammy, Dean. Watch out for Sammy, Dean. Don’t let anything happen to Sammy, Dean. Sammy is what matters, Dean.’

 

‘Your mother risked her life for Sammy, Dean. Not you. It’s on you.’

 

Sammy is what matters.

 

Sammy is what always matters.

 

Jack is what matters.

 

Jack and his Dad? Great friends.

 

Dean and Jack? Not suhmuch.

 

Dean and Jack _and_ Dad? 

 

Oh that’s party time. 

 

Huge party.

 

Sammy wasn’t invited.

 

Never was.

 

Dean made sure of that. 

 

_Cough_

 

Not that’d his Dad would ever think to invite Sammy though. After all, Dean was the one with the job. The one who had to remember and follow every single rule; Obey without question. Had to be that perfect little soldier.

 

So many rules. So, so, sooo many rules. 

 

So much to screw up. 

 

But one job.

 

The job he screws up all the time. Just like everything else. 

 

Man, he’s such a fuck up!

 

He is such a fuck up, that his Dad loved to celebrate just how much of a fuck up his first born was.

 

_Is._

 

_COUGH_

 

All. 

 

The. 

 

Time.

 

So whenever Dad and Jack, or any other of their close friends, see: Jose, Bud, Miller, Jim, Evan, Johnny, decided to get together, Dad would invite his other friends. And, whoooo boy did Dad love these guys: Belt and Whip.

 

When Belt was uncooperative, Whip had a blast. When ever possible, his father preferred Whip. Whip was how Dean learned the best, after all. 

 

Oh! And the boots. Dad really loved to invite his boots to the party as well. 

 

Awesome.

 

Dean never could just quite get it all right.

 

Sometimes though, when he was in dire need of discipline, when he needed to be reminded of his duties, and all the rules, god were there so many rules, Dad would not invite the others. 

 

It would just be him and Dad and Whip. Dean needed to learn. Dad always told him that he didn't want to hurt Dean, but Dean would always force his hand. 'This is life and death, Dean. This is because YOU fucked up. Because YOU are a failure. YOU make me do this. If only you would just get it.'

 

But, hey, at least he got some attention, right? 

 

Dad and Dean time. 

 

_Cough, hack, cough, wince, ow, pain._

 

Who was Dean to question? 

 

_Thought I buried this shit. Apparently not. And the bastard still scares the Hell outta me. Fucking pussy. I’m such a fucking pussy. Maybe Dad is right after all…_

 

Anger faltering, strength fading, but resolve firm, Dean wades through the hoard of drunk, sweaty, leather clad, gag inducing body odor—seriously, have these dudes ever heard of deodorant? Second thought, do they even _know_ what that is?—belonging to…ew…what-the-fuck-ever-scum-bar-patrons to get to his father, John Winchester, in all his resurrected glory, firmly butt fucking a bar stool.

 

 _Cough._ Damn it. Coughing is a sign of weakness. Can't be weak. 

 

_Great. Here goes._

 

Dean clasps his hand on his father’s jacketed shoulder and squeezes firmly. “Dad, hey, c’mon, you’re wasted. Time t’go, dude.” Man, Dean did NOT want to fetch his Dad from the bar.

 

Should’a made Sam do it. 

 

_Pffft...Who’m’I kidd’n. I wouldn’d’uh made Sammy deal with this shit. Never have, never will._

 

Shouldn’t have to do it at all, damn it. 

 

Yet, here he stands…


	2. "Father Of Mine, Tell Me How Do You Sleep?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Winchester is an asshole. A homophobic asshole.  
> Dean is so damn tired and he hurts so bad, the last thing he needs is to have his father tear him to shreds. This night just keeps getting better and better.
> 
> Did he say better? Yeah. That was sarcasm.

…Next to his Dad, who is knocking back a shot and mid-way to pouring himself another, ignoring Dean. His son. Oh, no, wait: his soldier. Nope. Whipping boy. 

 

_Homo._

 

 

John pours himself another shot. His boy's arrival not going unnoticed. Boy. Yeah right. He scowls, questioning Dean’s hand on his shoulder with a raised eyebrow, disgust dripping from every pore. “Ya wash that limp wristed hand’a yours, homo? Or it still cover’d in jizz an’shit?” He downs the bourbon and slams the shot glass on the bar. John makes a move for the bottle to pour another shot, but the barkeep removes it from the eldest Winchester’s grasp, receiving John’s nastiest glare for his troubles.

 

 

Dean visibly flinches at the combo of venomous tone and glass slam, forcing the anguished sob threatening his vocal chords as far down as he can. Damn that one really hurt. Tears prick and blur his vision for what he's sure won't be the last time tonight. He coughs. Shit, that really fucking hurts. Getting harder to remain standing. “C’mon on, dude; Been a long day. Let’s geta move on, huh?” Ignoring that comment, and that look of disgust is really fucking hard. But he does it. He has had practice after all. 

 

 

“Fuck’ff’a’me, fag!” John snaps at his son. His lips curl in a sneer and John rolls his shoulder, hard, knocking Dean’s hand off his shoulder.

 

 

 _Sonofabitch._ Dean sways back a bit from the sudden jolt, grabbing a hold of the brass bar rail to steady himself. He clenches his jaw and wraps an arm around his side, barely managing to hold back his hiss of pain. _Great. Sutures feel like a damn fuse and every time I breathe, they ignite. Awesome._

Without warning, Dean's hunter instincts kick in and have him on edge, prickling the hair on the nape of his neck. He'd thought it was just adrenaline, but that ain't gonna make his skin crawl or make him feel like he's being watched. And his skin is crawling. Because he _is_ being watched.

 

Shit got as quiet as a church. Dudd’n take a genius to realize it’s from the homophobic hatred dear ol’dad just spewed.

 

_Great. Time to go._

 

_Time to go now._

 

Dean’s exhausted, pained eyes greet those of the bartender. 

 

The grateful bartender. 

 

_**CLICK!** _

 

Ah, so it was the bartender who called the motel manager then. Who then pounded on his door. Relentlessly. To drag Dean away from the warmth that is Castiel. _Sonofabitch motherfucker._

 

“How much he owe?” Dean asks. He closes his eyes as he leans his left elbow on the bar. _Fuck ‘M’tired._ Resting his face in his left hand, he uses his thumb and middle finger to rub over his eyes briefly before sliding them outward, massaging his temples.

 

“Just get him outta here and we’ll call it even, pal.” Dean can hear the smile in the guy's voice.

 

“Thanks, man.” And he means it. Money is running low. Dean wipes his hand down his face and opens his eyes, giving the bar tender a nod of sincere thanks, who replies in kind with a boatload of pity…and jerk of the head for Dean to come closer. Evidently, there’s more to say, so Dean slides out of ear shot from his father and leans forward to hear what the man behind the counter has to say.

 

“Your father here, well, he’s been rilin’ up those _American History X_ jackasses all night,” The bartender tips his chin to the group of Neo-Nazi bikers pretending to shoot pool behind Dean, and Dean doesn’t need to look to know who they are. The bartender cracks open a Heineken exchanging it for cash with a customer, who says 'Thanks, Paul,' while continuing, “Goin’ on ‘n on about his,” and to his credit, Paul is genuinely uncomfortable, perhaps even mad, repeating John’s words. “… ‘faggot son who loves to take it up the ass’ and ‘is a cock slut’ and ‘whose asshole is wider than a howitzer shell, if the fruity princess has a clue what that is’. Fuckin’ real asshole, your pop. And these guys, well, they’re not exactly…tolerant. Hafta chase pussy, be white, and Catholic or have some other Christian shit for your religion…yada yada. Otherwise…” Paul draws a line from ear to ear across his throat with his thumb. Universal sign for death by slit throat. “Me? Only color I care about is green; Who you spend your time with is non of my business. Behave and pay. That’s all I ask. If I were you, kid, I’d hightail it outta here with yer old man ASAP. Those assholes have been eyeing ya up since ya came in.” He frowns as he pulls down on a _Blue Moon_ tap, filling up the tipped glass perfectly. “Not in a good way either.” He lets the tap pop back and slides the beer to its customer. 

 

Dean sighs, completely exhausted, and pretty fucking pissed now. Great. “Thank you. I appreciate the heads up, man.” 

 

“You got it. And, kid?”

 

Dean tips his chin up, eyebrows raised in question. 

 

Concern, real, serious, concern is etched on Paul's face. “Please, be careful. Ya here?”

 

Dean wraps his knuckles on the bar once, lifting his brow as he nods. “Always,”

 

 _Damn, man. So not good._ Dean shakes his head, runs both hands over his hair then over his face a few times, all while subtly sizing up the bar.

 

_Oh this is gunnuh be fun. The asshole just had to pick a Neo-Nazi bar. Guuhraaaate._

 

 _And ooof course fucker did it deliberately too._ Pushing himself back from the bar, faking non-nonchalance expertly, Dean steals a glance at his father, who is busy insulting Dean to a random stranger, giving no sign he’d heard the conversation between Dean and Paul The Bartender. _Well that’s something, anyway._

 

Still. 

 

_He knew I’d be the one tuh com’n’get’m. Bastard._

 

The douche bag Dean’s dad is talking to, leers over at him.

 

And licks. His lips.

 

“Oh you gotta be kidding me.” Dean mutters, rolling his eyes. “Just keeps getting better and better.”

 

Douche Bag nods excitedly, his leering never once abandoning Dean, beaming at whatever John said through a wolfish grin.

 

Dean coughs from deep within his chest. It's a wet, congested cough. _Awesomeness. I'm getting pneumonia now._ It hurts so goddamn bad he sees stars and tears up. _Jesus._ He can’t take a deep breath and he’s wheezing. Awesome. He wipes a hand over his face and back through his hair before moving back over to his father. He really needs to get the fuck outta this bar and go to bed. “Damn it all, Dad, let’s go. Please?”

 

“Ain’t leavin’ with sum weak faggot,” John’s glazed eyes travel from Douche Bag to Dean and he laughs. “My buddy here, uh’ll go with ya though,” John winks and waggles his bushy eyebrows suggestively. “Told him ya got one sweet ass, but it ain’t cheap, and you WILL make it real good for him.” John snickers and swivels back to Douche Bag, who adjusts himself.

 

 _Gross. So gross and what the FUCK? WHAT THE FUCK!_ The fuck is wrong with his dad? 

 

John laughs at Dean. “Wehll, look at that, Frank, he’s got his mouth already open for ya!”

 

Dean abruptly snaps his mouth shut. _Damn it. Musta dropped my damn jaw in shock. Son.Of. A. BITCH._

 

 

“You sure _are_ a pretty one. Those eyelashes…and freckles! Mmm…Those _luscious lips,_ ” Douche Bag licks his lips again, blatantly eye fucking Dean. “I bet those freckles cover your whole body, don’t they, Sweet Pea? Bet you got a real big dick too. Better have a tight pink little hole I can stuff too. Mmm hmm, oh yeah…” Douche makes no secret that he’s groping himself.

 

Dean refuses to let his panic overwhelm him. _Don’t care how hurt I am; That dickhead ain’t touching me. I’ll kill him before he gets the chance._ The urge to rip Douche Bag’s dick off and ram it down his asshole throat, overpowers Dean’s near panic, and that, well, heh, that is one hell of a motivational thought. Lets it wash over him. Protect him. Draw strength from it. _Much better._ Mask and walls in place, a psychotic, malevolent grin borne from the bowels of Hell, sidles its way to Dean’s lips with the promise of bloodletting crinkling the corners of his eyes. His voice is carved straight from Hell: “Get gone or get castrated. And believe you me, the only one swallowing is gunna be you.” 

 

Absolute terror empties the bladder and cleaves the smirk from Douche Bag’s face. All color drains away as the dickhead falls off his bar stool, and stumbles backward, rapidly scrambling to comply with ‘get gone’.

 

Dean catches a whiff of urine and laughs at Douche Baggins. “Ahh, that was awesome. Serves him right." He doesn't even mind the agony as his laughter turns to a coughing fit. A really bad coughing fit. Oh shit. Oh fuck. Ribs. Shit. Ow. Fuck. Okay, so that's not exactly true anymore. He does mind cause he's really hurting now Jesus fucking Christ. 

 

 

John levels a hardened glare, at his son, challenging. That damn… frightening voice…coming from _Dean_ almost had him shitting himself. Almost. John knows his kid. And his kid is all act. His eldest is just plain soft. He chuckles as Dean coughs, "Proving me right, Dean," Fucking skirt has more balls than his kid. Worthless brat needs a lesson. Needs ta know his place. Be _put_ in his place. Again. John grins vindictively. Time to set the stage. “Needed that money, Sweet Pea. Guess you’ll go back to bending over for that monster a yours.” He snags his former client's abandoned beer and brings the bottle to his lips, holding it in place, snickering. “Figures,” John tips the beer back guzzling himself a healthy serving. He turns sideways on the stool, right arm draped lazily on the bar, and points at Dean with the beer bottle in his left. John raises an eyebrow. Gestures dramatically to his sons ass and hips with his beer, absolutely delighting in how damned uncomfortable and ashamed Dean looks. He laughs at Dean as Dean shifts and then coughs, holding his side. “That hurt, Dean-O?” He turns back to the bar and takes another pull from his beer before bullying his own son. “Birthing hips! Fat ass! Ya always were real pretty. Just like a girl. Long eyelashes, petite waist, plump lips…emerald eyes…freckles...damn, boy shoulda rented ya out years ago!” John erupts into drunken hysterical laughter. “Gotta start chargin’ that monster ya let fill yer hole. Fuckin’ worthless, Deanna, ya know that. Thank Christ Sammy ain’t a cock sucking whore. Least yer brother has ‘nuff balls to stand up to me,” John gives Dean one last sidelong glance and shakes his head in utter disgust, “Pfft. Pathetic.”

 

 

Any victory Dean had, is long gone; his fathers words cut and burn and shred him to nothing. Shards of glass burrowing even greater self-loathing and shame into already torn flesh and broken bones. 

Dean feels the heat. Feels the hot tears of shame storming their treacherous way to fill his eyes. He feels his ears getting hot, turning red. Knows his entire face and neck are bright, bright red, burning and sizzling with shame. Shame he really shouldn’t feel. Like, at ALL. And he _knows_ it, damn it he does, but, but…this is his _dad_ …and the things, things he’s sayin’? Dean’s heard them all his life. From men and women alike. How can it not be true? Demons told him. And yeah, they lie, but not when the truth will hurt more. 

 

Hell, Sam’s even told him that he’s pretty for chrissakes.

 

_Birthing hips. Jesus, Dad. Rent me out? Jesus._

 

Deep breath. 

 

Bad idea.

 

Another round of coughing slams into Dean. _Can't see straight. Too much._ It leaves him dizzy and lightheaded, leaning forward onto the bar, face in his hands, wheezing. Desperately wishing his tears not to fall. He can’t get enough air. He’s too hot. He’s shivering. Shaking. Sweating. A lump, a huge, vile lump of despair rolls up his chest with every breath he tries to catch. 

 

Focus. Breathe. 

 

_Think. Gotta get my shit together._

 

Castiel.

 

CAS. His dad can say what he wants about Dean, but not Cas. 

 

Never Cas.

 

And Dean is damn well not ashamed of Cas. He really isn’t. “Heh,” Dean lifts his head from his hands and huffs, eyes closed. Does his best to pull himself together. Put the walls back up. _No one_ talks about _his_ angel like that. Blinking away his tears, son turns to father, filled with sorrow. “Castiel is not a monster, Dad,” Dean tries to match his dad’s challenging glare. Tries to summon strength to put force behind his words before he loses his voice. “Castiel is a warrior,” Comes out strong, but that’s it. Damn good thing he only needs to whisper out the next part, “An angel of the Lord.” 

 

John laughs. Jesus his kid is pathetic. “Angel? No. He’s a faggot, Dean. Just like you, ya skirt. Angel of the Lord... Have ya any idea how ridiculous you sound? Ya think God’s in favor of you homos? Not a chance.”

 

 

Dean’s shoulders slump. He’s too hurt and too tired to even flinch from his dad’s words. _Don’t have the strength to argue. I can’t keep this up._ “C’mon, Dad,” He shakes his head. Breathe. In. Out. Breathe. “Enough. ‘M tired. Let’s go. Please?” Emerald pleads to brown. “Please, sir?” He realizes his mistake too late: He showed weakness. Again.

 

 

John spits out a huff of laughter, tossing his head back. “Sir, now, huh? Christ you’re weak.”

 

Dean wants to say: 'Fuck you, I'm hurt and tired and just done', but nausea crashes into him hard as fuck before he can even open his mouth to get the words out.

 

_Oh god. No. Please, no. I can't._

 

He pushes back from the bar. Pauses. Turns. 

 

_Gonna hurl. Ugh. Cheeks are watering. Not good, Not Good, Not Good._

 

Barely gets out, weakly addresses Fucking John Winchester, “Yeah, sir. Ima hit the head. And,” 

_Oh man. Hold it together._

 

“And, then, sir, I’d really like to go, 'kay?” Shit. He's so pathetic.

 

“Yeah, 'kaaaay'. Go stick yer dick in the glory hole. Oh, wait, you’re the eager mouth waiting on the dick, in the glory hole,” John tips his head back, barking out a laugh.

 

Dean ignores how fucking much that hurt, choosing to side with the demanding urge to vomit instead. Gripping his side, Dean stumbles away from the bar, down the hall behind his father, bumping weakly into someone on the pay phone before bursting into the bathroom and plummeting into a stall. “ ‘S’g’nna huh, huhh,” Sweaty palms pressed to either side of the stall, barely hold Dean up. His arms shake. “uuurt…tttuh…”

Oh this sucks. 

 

So, so, so bad.

 

Broken ribs grind and crunch, audibly, mind you, with every violent spasm of his poor, abused diaphragm. 

 

Shit.

 

Shit shit shit shit shit.

 

SHIT. There go his stitches. 

 

Great. 

 

Pain, spit, pain, vomit, pain, spit, choke, pain, rinse and repeat.

 

There’s warmth trickling down his side.

 

_Ahhh…bleeding. Right. Time to go somewhere else while I tear myself apart from the inside. Slainte._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be on point now to update all my Supernatural fics as my significant other has finally gone back to work and I will no longer be pestered! I can write! YAY!
> 
>  
> 
> I really hope you guys enjoy this chapter. I'm nervous, as always, worried about whether you guys will like my work or not. This chapter took me a lot of editing. I really hope it works. It came to a point where I had to stop fucking with it and just post. 
> 
> *bites nails*


	3. “Anaesthesia”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is having a real hard time. He really hurts. He can't stop puking, and that really hurts too. His dad is an asshole and Dean would really much rather be back in bed with his angel. Who is warm and doesn't make him feel like a worthless piece of shit. Yeah. Oh, and the toilet paper is fighting him. Fucking ruthless, man.

Dean heaves and gags and hurls and dry heaves and chokes and vomits and it’s fucking disgusting and it fucking hurts.

 

And he fucking hates it.

 

He hates it even more when his ribs are broken.  
(Which they are.)

He hates it tenfold when it rips his sutures apart.  
(Which they are.)

It’s incredibly, unbelievably, insanely, excruciating.

 

And he fucking hates it.

 

Each heave, productive or not, is worse than the last. It’s so brutal, he can barely catch his breath. Heaving, verses gasping for air, in a battle so violent, the force propels him forward, clammy hands squeaking on high-density polyethylene resin― _and how in the fuck do I even know that?_ ―with the slide-stop-slide-stop-stutter of their attempt to save him from a not so fun headbutt with the Goddess of Porcelain. 

 

Talk about adding insult to injury.

 

Which, because, afterall, he _is_ Dean Winchester, it happens anyway as he moves both arms waaaay more fast than he should, reaching up and grabbing hold of either side of the bathroom stall walls, so that he's now hanging by his arms. 

 

Pulling on his sutures. 

 

 _Idiot_.

 

The momentum from his struggle, and subsequent success, has Dean strung out and hurting, swaying, and cursing furiously. His arms threaten to give, exhausted muscles trembling under the strain of his hanging weight. 

Fuck.

Snip. Snap. Pop. Pop. Crackle. Pop. _‘They’re Magically delicious.’ Lucky Charms. Why the fuck―where the fuck―did that come from? ‘M in worse shape than I thought, jeez…Annnnnd there go a few more sutures. Awesome._

 

He prays his shoulders don’t dislocate on top of it all.

 

Dean blinks tiredly, glaring lethargically at the former contents of his stomach mocking him from the toilet bowl. Thank God he hasn’t eaten anything in a couple days. Wait. Has he? He squints in thought, further analyzing the bowl. Looks kinda…pink…ish? 

 

Fantastic. 

 

Blood. 

 

Either from his stomach or throat. 

 

Probably his throat.

 

He swallows, wincing.

Hoping.

 

Dean’s cheeks water again, saliva filling his mouth too quickly. 

_Shit._

 

Spitting is futile. The saliva bursts from his mouth like ocean water from a resuscitated drowning victim. He rocks back, gags. He rolls forward, heaves. Back and forth, gagging and heaving, until one giant wave crashes into his back and then his stomach is rolling up his throat, into his mouth and out―violently, “…huhugh, hugh…oh’g’d…huhwehh, WHO-WHEHHH!” Projectile vomit. 

 

Great. 

 

Whimper. Groaning. God it fucking hurts. 

 

There go more stitches. 

 

Black and white static. 

 

Agony.

 

Retreat time. 

 

Back in his head, running from the pain of his present, his mind replays the past 24 hours:

 

John Winchester. Fucking John Winchester getting shitfaced and gay bashing his son since 0800. 

 

Yeah. 0800 is a nice round number to focus on. Keep track and all that. In truth, it was just early morning sometime. Or so he thinks. Pretty sure though.

 

But, gay bashing and black out drunk drinking.

 

Gay bashing.

 

His own _son_.

 

Nice.

 

_I’m not even gay! I’ve always enjoyed having sex with women. Just... not anymore. And, well, I guess I enjoyed it. I enjoyed pleasing them. Come to think of it...I never came. Huh. I **am** exceptional at oral pleasure, which is...actually, the first thing I did. Then if they wanted...uh, me, if I couldn't get out of it, I'd oblige. Shit...I can't believe I never thought about this more. But, still. Not gay. I never even had sex with a man. A chick that looks a dude was the closest I've ever come. Willingly. I…I haven’t ever…haven’t, never…I never…willingly… had sex with a man before. Don’t think about that…I don’t, I won’t go there… I didn’t want to. Is that? Is that…why? Gah! Stop._

Not. Gay.

But…

 

_...uh, but,uh...I...I uh, I used to think about it though. Before… A lot. Used to be curious about it. Not just sex either. Just being with a dude. Before. And, an’uh, I…I do find some guys attractive. Hell, even masculine chicks I find hot. And then, I mean, heck, Dr. Sexy …is…well…sexy._

But Cas. 

Shit. 

_Cas._

**Cas** _is beyond sexy. Cas is just…wow. Cas is something else entirely. An’ it confuses me. God, does it confuse me. We’re best friends. But when he’s close, I want him closer. I wanna reach out and hold his hand sometimes. I want him to touch me. I can’t help forcing contact whenever I can. I just can’t help staring at him. I get lost in his eyes. When he’s gone, I miss him so much and I worry! Oh god do I worry! And then when I see him again, all I wanna do is throw my arms around him and kiss him breathless. Fuck, man! I sound like a chick. But…I can’t deny how I feel. It’s like I’m denyin’ half myself. So I’m not gonna try to. ‘S’not somethin’ ya can just shut off. Not something Dad could just beat outta me either._

If he could see himself right now he’d be witness to a rare sight. Hardcore blushing and giddy, girly grin. Dean is damn sure of that. “Don’…dn’ c-care, neefer,”

 

_Castiel, Angel of the Lord, who ‘gripped’ me ‘tight and raised’ me ‘from Perdition.’ My hero. My savior. My Angel. When I laid eyes on him for the first time…man, bastard took my breath away. He was, still IS, the most beautiful being I have ever seen and all those feelings I tried to hide when I was younger, came back. Tenfold. I can’t deny it, hide it, or bury it like I used to, not with Cas, and I don’t **WANT** to. II really, really don’t. Not anymore. I’ve never felt about anyone the way I do about him and not once has it ever felt wrong. I… I just…I just, just wanna be with Cas. In every way possible. And, it can’t be wrong. It just can’t. So, I’m not going to try to hide anything. Not with Cas. Not after everything we’ve been through and how long it’s taken me to get to this point. Not anymore. So we’re not. Cas and I, man I dig that, Cas and I are, well, we’re not defining it. How can we? We’re just…not hiding…doing what feels right. And that is being together. Finally._

 

Dean blinks sluggishly, briefly coming back to the present. 

Decides against it. 

 

Too much. Too much pain.

 

Um…Yeah. So, asshole dad. Gettin’ wasted since 0800. Or, more specifically, Dad assaulting all things alcohol since storming in on Dean,

 

And Cas. 

Snuggled together. 

In a bed. 

In the only bed. 

A king size bed. 

Naked. _Being naked with Cas has never really been an issue; He did recreate me after all._ “Pffferff’ct’ly jus’fied,”

 

Naked under feathers and blankets. Wrapped in wings. Wrapped in Cas. “Heh,” _Those wings…Jesus…I am ridiculously infatuated with Cas’ wings._

 

Blatantly obvious they were naked when his dad ripped the blankets away exposing their bare asses, with naked Dean nuzzled into naked Cas, wrapped up in wings and arms and legs. 

Dear ol’dad was NOT happy. 

Not happy _despite_ Castiel’s wings being super, like, ridiculously super, warm and perfect to keep an injured and hypothermic Dean toasty and safe. 

 

And _alive_.

His dad not happy, because, obviously, two _men_ sharing body heat for SURVIVAL―GAY.

 

And, well, shit, GAY is just plain evil, and bad, and wrong, and immoral, and disgusting…etcetera, etcetera…et―fucking―cet―er―a.

 

This is only the second time since becoming ‘officially’ together, whatever that means, that he’s seen Cas’ wings on this plane, and man does Dean want to _touch_ , explore; He can’t help himself. The way Cas reacts to his touch practically has Dean cumming in his pants. They’re gonna need time and privacy. And lots of it. 

Eventually.

Not sure how or why it happened, him being able to actually see Cas’ wings. 

Not that he cares.

Cas said it’s because their Profound Bond is now fully open, that his wings are able to ‘manifest’ on ‘this earthly plane’ (or some shit like that). Cas also said something about ‘mates’ and ‘family’ and ‘vessels’ and ‘consummating’ but Dean was too tired to pay much attention. 

And that’s absolutely fine with Dean, the manifesting wings and all.

Absolutely, totally fine. 

So long as it’s only in front of Dean and Dean only. 

 

But then Sam had to go and find a feather, and now Sam is obsessed. Always asking about them and wanting to see because Sam loves to learn.

Sam is too damn curious about Cas’ wings for Dean’s liking.

Cas is uncomfortable about it, but Cas being Cas and all, said he is okay with aiding in ‘research’ because Cas is forever helpful and eager to please.

Dean would be lying if Sam wanting to see Cas’ wings―the thought of Sam with a feather belonging to Dean’s angel!―doesn’t send a hot stab of jealous rage though him. Dean’s not possessive though. 

He’s not. 

Really.

He’s protective. 

Big difference.

Okay, so he’s extremely protective over Cas’ wings. One more thing to talk with Cas about. 

Coherently.

Anyway, Dean and Cas were caught. Flesh and wing exposed.

How his dad was able to see Cas’ wings is curious. Or maybe his dad _didn’t_ see them and just saw nakedness instead? Dean’s not sure. He really wasn’t too with it when the door flew open (Not that he’s anymore with it now…)and the cursing and violence started. 

Clearly his loving father assumed it was post-coital snuggling,

 

Because 

 

Naked

 

King size

 

Bed

 

Cuddling. _Naked. Did I say that? I think so. Yeah._

 

 

(Hence Dad’s deliberate choosing of said Neo-Nazi biker bar.)

 

But, as it happens, it wasn’t post coital. Dean isn’t quite ready for that……particular….step….yet. Soon though. Maybe. Right now it’s enough to just be held and loved. To be touched without pain. Without being used for sex.To not be afraid being close. And Cas is just…just perfect about it.He doesn’t expect anything. Doesn’t demand anything. Cas just wants him to be okay with being loved. Imagine that.

 

Dean blinks back to the present again. Just for a moment tough; just enough to know that his jumbled train of thought and flipping back and forth like this is not a good sign. It means heavy blood loss for him. 

 

Blink.

 

_I really hope Cas can figure how to…yeah, Cas’ll know. He knows. Cause I really have no clue. Well, I mean, I know how, just, shit, man…it’s not sex. It’s love. And…an’I want Cas to be the one in charge. I don’t wanna be the one in charge. I sound like a damn kid. Moving on. Slow. Slow is good. This is the first time I’ve ever taken it slow and I love it. We snuggle. And cuddle. This shit makes me blush just thinking about it. But it’s cool. I really like it. I’ve never been held or cuddled or snuggled before. I’m the little spoon. Me! Dean Winchester! The Little Spoon! For once. And I LOVE it. I always wanted these things, but I was so scared to admit to myself. Like there’d be something wrong with me if I did. Cas is helping me to see things differently…to show me it’s really okay to want this shit. And that there is nothing wrong with it. With me._

 

_I owe him so much. An’m just really glad Cas is the first one who wants to hold me as much as I want him to hold me. The best part is he doesn’t want sex or a blow job for it. He just wants to hold me._

 

_Despite how I act, how I am with chicks, I really hate being touched in any way, sexual way, or otherwise. I do. Sometimes I liked it. But not all the time. Different with Cas though; I want him to touch me. Need him to touch me. Cas’ touch gives me shivers. Makes me tingle in a really good way. Cas can touch me however and whenever he wants and he doesn’t have to ask. He does though. He always asks for my consent. He said asking is most important. Never realized how much that actually means to me. What it means._

Huh. 

A weight has been lifted, Dean thinks, feeling lighter than he ever has. Probably because never once has he delved that deep into his psyche, his emotions. 

 

Cough, hack, spin, tilt, spit, curse, no thank you...

…back to how he got in this predicament in the first place…

 

Besides absolutely enjoying naked snuggling with his angel, Dean really _did_ have a valid Dad-Should-NOT-Flip-Out-Reason, reason for the naked snuggling. Well, it was in Dean’s mind anyway. He needed body heat. Badly. Like really, really, _really_ badly. He wasn’t even shivering. He was ridiculous confused. He was slurring his words; Giggling and not giving a fuck. About anything. 

 

All very bad things. 

 

Ridiculously cold to the touch, yet not cold. Blue and frosty, Sam had said. Warm up it was. Best way to warm back up is through body heat. Naked flesh on naked flesh. (Giggle.) Cas and Dean naked flesh. (Giggle-blush-giggle-giggle.) _And why was I hypothermic? Oh yeah. Why else: A hunt!_

 

Yesterday had started out fairly well enough;They’d had a Black Dog hunt. Perfect opportunity to burn off the tension that had been building for days―they’d all felt it―and it had taken’em (Cas, him, Sammy, and Dad) all damn day, and all damn night to finish, finally getting back to the motel about 0500 or so. 

 

Numbers again. Keeping track. Gotta keep track.

 

Unfortunately, the hunt had only increased the tension. 

 

Dad had wanted to be in charge, of course, but it was Sam’s hunt. His little brother had found the hunt, done all the research－everything－so Dean had happily given Sammy the reigns. 

 

After all, he was way too busy flirting with Cas to give a shit about Black Dogs. Or anything other than Castiel. Everything is all brand new, or it seems, now that Dean feels okay with being open about his feelings. Kind of. Still working on that. Their flirting, stolen touches, quick little kisses, and love making staring contests, had escalated with enormous zeal. Their Profound Bond had finally opened up all the way, so everything Dean felt, Castiel felt, all their thoughts and needs and wants were now being broadcast very loud and very, _very_ clear to one another. It’s so… intimate. 

 

And Dean loves it. Yes he god damn well does. It makes him…

…happy.

How’bout that…

The affection, adoration, attraction, protectiveness; the utter _devotion_ they have for one another is beyond definition, label. Dean is overwhelmed by it all. But in a very good way. It just feels so incredibly _right_. He feels so loved and cherished. So protected and precious. Like he’s actually worth something. Like Dean matters just for being Dean. It’s all so utterly completely foreign to him. To have someone care about just Dean for once. To know that someone values his life above all else. That Dean matters. His feelings, desires, needs, wants…they actually mean something. They matter. Dean matters. 

 

And that it’s Castiel who feels this way about him? 

 

Well, Dean won the damn lottery; That’s for damn sure. 

 

Castiel loves _him－Dean_ －a nobody. Castiel, warrior, freakin’ _angel of the LORD_ loves him.

 

Mind. 

 

Blown.

 

And it’s…natural, they just fit together; Like, well, as lame as it sounds, it’s true: Cas _is_ his other half. It’s fucking magical being so close, and, man, he cannot get enough.

 

 _Magical. I just said magical. Maaaaaan’m’I lame. … It’s all Cas’ fault. An’that really is just fine by me._  
Dean can’t keep the silly grin off his face.

 

Dean craves Cas as Cas craves him. They get lost in each other. _I really sound like a chick now._

Worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, he hears Cas in his head: _‘There is nothing wrong with feeling, Dean. You are a passionate, intense human being, with extremely intense emotions that you feel with equal intensity. And there is absolutely_ nothing _wrong with that. It is what makes your soul shine so brightly. It is what makes you so beautiful. It is what I love about you, en hoath.’_

And damn it all straight to hell and back again if that didn’t start a fire deep and low in Dean’s belly. Cas speaking Enochian is by far the sexiest thing in the world. Cas had explained the words, "en hoath", mean “my love”. Apparently, the expression is far longer than just two words, but Cas said he was trying to keep it as close to an English translation as possible. So just ....wow.Yeah. Cas is amazing.

They’ve been through so much together. They teach each other. Learn from each other.Now Cas is teaching him Enochian. And Dean’s learning. Quickly too. Like second nature. Dean’ll be fluent in no time. In return, Dean is teaching Cas how to play the guitar. His angel is damn good at it too. 

 

Dean comes back to himself again, managing to catch a breath and grin at his musings before he’s puking his guts out again. 

He spits a few times, hoping it’s over, watching his drool drip down into the toilet.

Gross.

Annnnd…it ain’t over.

Not by a long shot. He’s clammy and cold and hot and sticky and sweating and just, just sick.

Dean slips back into his mind to escape the agony of hurling and feeling.

 

_Where was I? Oh yeah, how I got here._

 

As usual though－because, ya know, Heaven _forbid_ Dean gets peace and quiet and happiness, and flirting with Cas－Sam and Dad were butting stubborn, damn near identical heads, so all Dean’s energy(AND PATIENCE) had gone to Dean draping over himself the familiar mantle of ‘Keeper of The Peace.’

 

Add ice, shake well, pour into chilled glass…Annnnnnd VOILA! Ya end up with one distracted, tired, freezing ass cold―hurt, hunter/brother/son/partner. 

Or, Dean being the only one injured(as usual), dumped in a frigid fucking stupid lake in the middle of the frigid fucking night, in the fucking middle of fucking frigid ass freak’n’ February. 

FFFFFFFFuhf. 

Yeah. So many ‘F’s’.

Dean was exhausted from having to maintain the very, very fragile balance preventing Sam and Dad from killing each other. Didn’t help that Dad was pissing everyone off with his ‘gay jokes’ and commentary on how “his eldest” and the “monster” are “eye fucking each other” and did Cas “need a minute to lift up [Dean’s] skirt and buttfuck my faggot son?” Cas had his smite face on so Dean had to come between his Dad and his angel, damn near as much as he did with his Dad and Sammy. 

 

So, yeah. Injured. Pretty damned bad too. He was a mess. Soaked in blood, soaking and freezing wet, his hair frozen hard. Bad shape. Such bad shape that Dean didn’t even complain when Cas had carried him, like Cas’ human was a damn bride. In front of his dad (Which, in essence, he probably was).

 

In front of, straight as an arrow, John. Fucking. Winchester.

 

Which sooooo did not help Dean. Fucking. Winchester.

But it sure as hell helped his dad with proving his eldest was some “Nancy-Boy”, who needed to “man up.” And THAT had pissed Cas off, which pissed Dean off, which pissed Sammy off, and, man was _that_ soooo not good.

Why? Because it happened to be the straw that broke the moose's back. 

Sam LOST it. 

L.O. S. T 

_IT._

Man, oh, man did Sammy go off on Dad for that one. Sam had been livid. _LiViD_ Which, as per the norm, had started a whole new row, with Dean, as usual, smack in the middle. 

Fucking priceless. 

Not that Dean had expected their Dad to give a shit anyway. 

Or Sam, for that matter. 

Neither one had ever paid him any mind other than being the pawn, when they square off. The rope they tug, pulling Dean back and forth until he snaps. 

But when he’s hurt? Not a single fuck given. Oh sure, yeah, he’ll be the beginning point of contention, but that’s it. Then it’s just a poor dead horse getting beat. 

Not like Dean was hurt, ya know. 

Eye roll. 

Not hurt, noooo. Just being a bitch ‘cus’a some bruises. Wasn’t like damn near half his ribs, left side, _Always my left side_ were broken. Or that he has a real nasty and deep gash an inch above his belt line on his stomach that stretches from his belly button to his left hip, wrapping around to his back; Then another slash running from his left shoulder, down his back to meet the other gash on the top of his left freakin' ass cheek;Washing it all down with a bad case of hypothermia. 

Infection and pneumonia more’n likely will set in as well, despite Sam and Cas’ best efforts. The two of them did a damn fine job putting him back together. Duhddin’ take a genius to figure out that their Dad, of course, had better things to do than give a crap about his son and help. Ain’t easy putting in sixty－was it sixty?－sutures. 

Wait. Sixty on his back or side? 

Both? The thinking of stitches brings Dean back to the present again. 

Unfortunately, the present keeps fading. Dean floats in a hazy barrier; The fresh pain of ripping stitches from his heaving drag him under, while the memories provide a bubble that float him back up through the haze. It’s a familiar, endless cycle accompanying blacking out. 

Stay awake. Stay in the present. Focus on the stitches. 

Stitches. Right. A lot of them. That’s what he’s thinking about. That’s what’s hurting him now. 

Dean has no idea how many of them he has though. He wasn’t exactly conscious for all of it. There are a lot of fuckin’ stitches though. That he knows. He can _feel_ it’s a lot. A line of fire around his stomach and down his back is pretty much a dead giveaway. And he friggin’ _hurts_. Every movement, no matter how small, _hurts_. Shit, man, _breathin’_ hurts. And now the coughing. That walk in the cold so did not help. Stomach feels too tight. Tender and warm. Sticky. And not in the fun way. Tired…He’s being dragged under again, but this time everything is wavy and black. 

Sometime later, though, Dean comes back to himself. It can’t be that much later though, only a matter of minutes as he’s staring at that same toilet, drooling strings of pink saliva into it. 

Awesome. 

Time to assess. 

He spits away more drool and blood. Probably from hacking so bad. He hopes. 

Wriggles his toes. His socks are wet. The fuck? Was…He was…Walking. Cold. Salt. Dad. Shame. Dizzy. Cough. Nausea. Bathroom. Blood? Hunt. _I feel awful._

“Ugh...pffft…schppluff” More spitting. More coughing. More gasping. More PAIN! “…huh-rts…” Blinking away tears of agony, one arm stretched up, tightly holding one of the stall walls, Dean sloppily grabs for toilet paper. It's stuck in the damn plastic case－Defiant little shits. 

“Guhdha bow’m’nose,” He punches the plastic case in frustration, wincing as pieces of plastic scrape and stick in his fist, and yanks off the piece that broke to reveal his prize. “Ha-ha!” Triumphant, he holds the plastic cover up in front of him, checking out his reflection: A goofy ass grin is plastered on his face. Dean sticks out his tongue and blows a raspberry at the offending plastic. 

Tossing the plastic down, he makes a face at his offering to the porcelain god. “Suhd fuhsh,” Nodding to no one, now using both arms again to brace himself between the stalls, Dean lifts his leg and drops his booted heel down on the handle, flushing his payload after the fifth attempt. 

Triumphant smirk. 

“Shit. ‘M’Dizzy. Guh’a sit.” He sways between the walls. “Gah’ le’go,” 

Letting go turns out to be a very bad idea. “Ooof!” Listing to the side, he hits the side of the stall with a loud rattle that jostles things that _hurt_. Pout. Wincing and hissing in pain, Dean thunks his head back against the stall wall, eyes shut tight, trying to will away the dark threatening to swallow him. “Fuuuuck,” Sweat runs down between his shoulder blades, beads up in his collarbone hollow. It stings. He bites his lip til it bleeds. “Damn,” He’s panting now. Great. Fuck. Damn. 

Rolling to his side, facing the front of the stall, he rests a moment. Wipes his face with his hand. He presses his hand to the right wall and gently pushes himself to the left. Quickly he stretches his left arm and presses his hand to the left stall wall. Okay, okaay. Steady. 

_Get control. Steady…_

_Steady._

Dean stands there, arms spread, hands pressed to the stall sides, gathering himself. Great. He’s panting again, but now his nose is running…no, hold up a sec. He licks up under his nose. Copper. It’s bleeding. Fucking fantastic. He feels a cough coming, but shuts it down. 

He hopes, anyway. 

Using his hands, Dean ‘walks’ his way down to sit on the toilet. That took way too much effort. Once again, he gropes for the TP, this time, however, he is successful. He rolls a large wad of it up around his hand, ‘cause, ya know, it’s that shitty, thin and rough kind, and blows his nose. Ew. Gross. He tosses the bloody paper between his legs and into the bowl. He grabs some more and wipes his mouth. 

_Damn, man. I feel like dog shit warmed up. Black Dog shit. Heh._

_Annnd my nose is still bleeding._

_Wonderful._

_Awesome and son of a fucking bitch._

He tears off more of the shitty toilet paper, rolling it into two pieces, carefully wedging one into each nostril. Rubs his eyes. Grabs more TP and wipes the sweat from his brow and neck. He winces unable to hold back a whimper, (or two), as he gently peels his shirt up and away from his chest. And wouldn’t ya know several pieces of blood saturated gauze and bandaging came with. God damn hitchhikers. 

“Jesus,” Dean hisses stuffily as he peers down at his stomach, then his side, gently prodding the angry, very tender wound with his fingers and cursing furiously at the Missing-In-Action stitches. He squeezes his eyes shut against the pain, tears forcing their way free, his body shaking from the simple act of holding his shirt up. That and how he’s harassing his wounds. It’s fucking agony. His abs twitch and jump. They’re covered in blood and on fire. He feels the blood seeping further into his boxers, hears the squish in his socks as he wiggles his toes. 

Opening his eyes, he holds his shirt up with his right hand keeping his left side exposed, and rips off almost half the damn roll of toilet paper. Satisfied he has enough, Dean does his best to limit his agonized whimpers through clenched teeth and a bouncing leg, as he cleans as much of the horrible wound as he can. It won’t stop bleeding. Shit. _Shit!_ He lines the waistband of his boxers and pants with more toilet paper then presses more to the wound with a hiss and a curse, tucking the left side of his shirt into his jeans, hoping like hell it’ll stay put. 

"Ughhhhh….” Dean hugs himself and leans forward. “Jus’ need a minute. Tha’s’all.” Yeah right. He rocks back and forth, trying to get up. “On three. One, two―ooooohhhhh god!” Launching himself up he stumbles out of the stall, and straight into the double sink vanity, with a grunt, his hands stopping his impact. He takes a moment before looking into the mirror and briefly appraising his reflection: Freckles stand out like fucking polka dots against a sickly white pallor. Dark blue/black circles under his eyes compliment the lovely shades of red, black, yellow, and purple decorating…well, all of him. His hair is matted from sweat, and thank all hell his shirt is black because he damn well knows he’s still bleeding. Damn fucking jean pocket is stuck to his hip too. Blood. Yay. And on top of all that crap, his balls are sticking to his boxer briefs because blood is sticky and why wouldn’t he still be bleeding bad enough to have it run down into his underwear. _Only me._

“What the fuck ever. Don’ even care.” He flips off his reflection making to head back out to the gallows,but a wave of dizziness assaults him and he finds himself hunched over, leaning against the sink, panting in agony, wishing that his darlin’ angel coulda healed him. 

Heh, his Halo weren’t too happy about that fact either. Least _Cas_ didn’t blame him for the stupid spell slash trap slash bullshit he fell into. 

Apparently, some stupid ass hunters had tried－and FAILED－to end the Black Dog before Winchester and Co. had shown up. Being the brilliant hunters those pricks so obviously thought themselves to be, decided it’d be fun to lay a trap for the next lot of hunters (Winchesters) to give it a what for. Why? NO freakin’ clue. But the trap these geniuses had set, had fuck all to do with summoning a demon (Again, no idea what or why the fuck) and everything to do with preventing angelic healing. One Black Dog down, and one group of dumb ass hunters to go, The Winchester Shit List keeps on growing. 

So, their little adventure had left Sam seriously pissed off and exhausted, dear ol’dad happy and disgusted, Cas absolutely furious with ready to smite written all over his face, and Dean terribly injured, exhausted, loopy, half conscious, and hypothermic. Once they were back Dean was seen to and cleaned up, then into bed they went with Cas wrapping Dean in wonderfully warm angelic arms and legs keeping him nice and toasty. Oh! And wings. Yuh huh. Wings. Oh yeah. Oooh fuck yeeeees. 

So, yeah, Dean really, really wants to go back snuggle; curl up with his angel. That sounds soooooo fucking chick-flicky. He thinks on that. Yup. It does. Nope. He don’t care. Dean wants his angel and he would so really rather not be here. 

_Fuck. I’m fucking tired. I hurt. I want Cas._

Dean blinks sluggishly. Shit. He hasn’t moved. Musta blacked out for a minute. Wipes his face a few times with his hand and pushes off the sink, leaning heavily on the wall for the support as he makes his way to the mens room door and then out into the bar. 


	4. "Till the Point of Agony"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean just can't catch a break. He's said it before and he'll say it again. 
> 
> John is a sadistic, homophobic asshole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the mix up with chapter 3 and 4. I made revisions and improvements to chapter 3 so I hope you guys like it. Here is the REAL chapter 4. It's short, but chapter 3 was long and chapter 5 will be long, so there's that. I really hope you all like.

Agony. Fucking agony. Dean is getting worse by the minute. He’s got to get his dad back home. Fast. 

 

_Not sure how much longer I can even stand. And how the hell am I gonna make it back to the motel?_

 

Shoulders slumping, he slowly, holding on to any solid surface available to him, Dean makes his way over John.

 

A shudder, complete with goose-flesh, rips through him, leaving him freezing, with his teeth beginning to chatter. Shock. Just great. Dean winces, and gently rubs at the wound on his stomach. He’s fading. And fast. Adrenaline is waving bye-bye. He coughs again. And again. Fights against whimpering as he doubles over in pain. He’s losing blood. So not good.

 

Dean gropes for the bar rail, in dire need for support, lest he collapse. Focusing on taking slow and even, calm breaths, he gets some semblance of control back and straightens up. _One more time. I got this._ Tries again. 

 

“D-Dad… tuhtime to guh-go, man, C’mon.” Without warning, though Dean really should have expected it, a wave of pain explodes across his wound with such force his eyes widen in fear before squeezing shut. His lips curl into his mouth, his head tucking into the crook of his shoulder to hide his tears. Too much-too much-too much-too much! He curls his arms around his stomach protectively, wheezing from trying to catch his agonized breaths. 

 

With a tight grimace, willing himself under control, Dean manages to check his watch. It’s now, 2345 Greeeeeat, over 12 hours of his father hanging with his ‘buddies’.

Fuck. 

 

Soooo, let’s see: His father was more than likely hung-over to begin with; prob—no, definitely—a stash in his duffle bag…..So Dad had to have taken off to his room and then the bar after… _After spewing vile, hateful, **hurtful** words at me and Cas._ Which means…three to four hours of drinking prior to the bar opening at either 1100 or 1200. 

Until now. If his math is correct. Even if it’s not, the numbers help him to keep focus, and either way, his dad has hitting the hooch for a long ass time.

 

Dean holds his arm tight against his side, bracing his ribs and holding his stomach. He surveys John for signs of how hard it’s gonna be to get him to cooperate.

 

Sonofabitch.

 

Difficulty Level: 1000

 

On a scale of Daddy to John?

 

John.

 

Not Dad. 

 

Definitely not Daddy. 

 

Cause this guy? 

This guy is no father. Never has been. 

 

So it’s John when drinking and smashed and black out rage drunk.

Dad and father on good days.

Not enough of those days.

 

So, _John_ has a scruffy beard going, hair disheveled as if John weed wacked his hands through it a bunch of times. Rumpled clothes…Listing side to side on the stool…Ugh…John is a mess. 

 

Damn it. 

Damn it all to hell.

 

And it’s almost midnight. Eight hours shy of twenty-four since John barged in Dean’s motel room.

 

Oh this is just AWESOME!

 

Dean tries again: “’C’mon, Dad, le--”

 

“—imp wrists’d f’fuk’n faggot, FAGGOT, t’get my straight wom’n’lov’n’ass outta a bar.” John cuts Dean off.

 

Dean feels his ears burn bright red again, “Dad…Dad, please. Ya can call me all the names ya want OUTside’a here, okay?” He grabs John’s shoulder more for his own support than John’s.

 

“Git yer fuffkin’ han’off’a’me, fag, ‘fore I break y’nose.”John swats Dean’s hand off his shoulder. 

 

Anger flushes up Dean’s neck to his cheeks, his hands ball into fists as his father stands up to face him. Dean doesn’t move, other than wincing and tracking John’s movements with his eyes. Unbelievable. “Seriously?”

 

John towers over him, feral, and snarls, “Seriously, fudge packer.”

 

Dean just stares dumbfounded up at his father, completely unprepared for John’s fist, and the punch that breaks his nose.

 

John’s smirking. 

 

And apparently not quite as sloppy drunk as Dean had originally thought.

 

ShiiiIIIT.

 

Dean staggers backward hitting the bar rail hard, blood gushing from his nose. “The fuck, Dad?!” 

 

John storms toward his boy, rage boiling the closer he gets. He catches Dean off guard as Dean unsuccessfully tries to staunch the flow of blood. “Don’ya dare call me that! Boy, I ain’t yer daddy! My son ain’t no fucking FAGGOT!!” 

 

Dean can’t help flinching. That…that _hurt_. That hurt a whole helluva lot. More than his broken nose. More than his broken ribs. Desperate not to show just how much that hurt, he turns around, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose, the other fishing for napkins behind the bar. Blood continues to gush from his nose, tears blind his vision. _Fuck._ The bartender rushes over from the far end of the bar and stuffs a wad of napkins into Dean’s hand. “T-Thanks, man,” 

 

Whatever reply the bartender had dies out just as Dean realizes his error: He stupidly _turned his back_ on his angry, drunk father.

 

“Christ, Da—uuhhh!” Dad. John. Dad… Dad, John, Dad. An angry and drunk John Winchester is never a good combination, so Dean really should have expected the next sequence of events. First: John yanks Dean’s hair _hard_ and pulls him forward, leaving Dean helpless in John’s grip. Second: John’s burying his meaty fist into Dean’s wounded stomach. Dean gasps and makes a heartbreaking little whimper/cry of devastating agony. His body curls in on himself , gasping and wheezing yelps and cries of pain. 

And John ain’t done.

 

There’s hammering on Dean’s back, a brutal reign of Marine trained fist into his left side, then the **SNAP! CRACK! CRUNCH!** of ribs breaking and giving way. No mistaking that; It happened often enough as he was growing up. 

 

And holy fucking SHIT….Dean’s vision fades into blurs of red and black and white, static fuzz in his ears going in and out. Somethings wrong. Somethings really wrong. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

 

He’s down on his knees.

 

Vulnerable.

 

Helpless.

He’s six again.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

Twelve and a half.

Thirteen.

Fourteen.

Fifteen…sixteen, sixteen, sixteen…

Doesn’t stop.

 

Ever.

 

He dudn’ feel right. 

Feels…weird.

He’s gasping, wheezing.

Can’t breathe.

He slides his hand to his chest, left side.

Can’t breathe.

Dean’s eyes widen…and widen…

…and widen.

Dean is panicking now. Holding his left side he feels his skin sucking in when he tries to inhale. 

Backwards. Shouldn’t…be…backwards. 

 

There’s no bone where bone should definitely be. Even broken.

Something is wrong with his chest cavity.

Something is really very wrong. Inhale should mean expand. S’not.

Dean is scared.

Something ain’t right.

He’s down on his knees. 

Something’s not right.

His head drops forward. 

Shoulders slump. He’s gonna fall.

 

There’s blood. Blood running down his chin. Blood filling the waist line of his jeans and boxers. 

 

Dean is vulnerable.

 

With a drunken bull ready to charge. 

No…please… _No._

 

Dean stares up, pleading, at his Commanding Officer.

Lips turning blue.

Can’t breathe.

Can’t breathe.

Cas…

 _”Castiel…help…”_ Dean calls to his angel through their bond.

 

John sneers down at Dean. “You’re a fucking princess. Fucking worthless faggot. Taking dick up your fucking whore ass.” John spits in his sons face and laughs. “You disgust me. Always have. Been waiting a long time tuh teach ya this lesson, cock slut.” John grabs his faggot son by his hair before he can fall over. “Wan’ me tuh leave, boy,” John mocks, nodding to the bartender in farewell, “we leave.” 

 

“Duh….Daaahhhh….ah…pluh….” Dean coughs, barely able to get the words out, blood drooling from his mouth, weakly reaching for his dad’s hand on his hair. 

John yanks Dean’s hair hard and drags him outside, his son’s beaten up back dragging and sliding along the snow and salt coated pavement. And John laughs at his son’s pitiful whimpers and yelps of pain. “Salt hurts, huh? Or maybe it’s the gravel. Fucking faggot. Fucking worthless piece of shit cock sucking faggot.”

Dean is fighting to stay conscious. His shirt rides up. It’s so hard. He trying so hard not to cry as he’s dragged. Salt bites into him. _Fucking hate salt._ His legs kick out, flailing for purchase. Gravel and snow and ice and salt. Burn and freeze and hurt and rip and burn and hurt. “M’not…nuh…nuh…ttt―gasp―fuh-fuhfaggot,” He valiantly attempts to escape, but he's so damned weak, it's useless.

 

John yanks Dean _hard_ and picks up his pace.

“D-Da…d-d…dad…p-pluh….dad please…” 

 

He can’t breathe. 

Snowflakes land in his eyebrows.

He tries to stay conscious.

But it’s so hard. 

And snow is covering his chest.

He hurts.

At least he’s warm.

He wants Cas.

There is snow in his eyes.

He wants…

He…


	5. All Things Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. Life's been shitty. I hope this doesn't have a lot of errors..I was in a hurry to get it up. Comfort is en route! The torture scene is from something I saw in Casino Royale, the newer Bond movie. If you were wondering.
> 
>  
> 
> Italicized speech in quotes is telepathic communication.

Castiel really should still be sleeping. Exhausted. Yes, that is the correct word for being completely, utterly worn out. And he is. Not so much physically though, but emotionally, mentally, and mostly from spending the entire day battling the urge to smite John Winchester. 

Because John spent the entire day berating Dean.  
Every chance John got, and even ones John did not get, John used to demoralize Dean; Masticating Dean until there was nothing left. 

 

Dean was devastated, and Castiel was worried to say the very least. So Castiel spent quite a lot of time inside Dean’s head and their bond comforting, reassuring Dean, letting him know how loved, how cherished, how wonderful he is. 

On top of all that, was the hunt.

 

The hunt.

Oh the hunt... Dean. Oh…Dean. Dean was hurt and all Castiel could do was to just stitch him up and bandage his wounds. Which was quite the ordeal, as it had taken Sam and him the better part of the morning to patch Dean up, Dean was hurt that terribly.

They were all hunting a Black Dog. 

Well, Sam and John were. 

Dean and him, well… Castiel blushes, smiles. Dean and him were flirting. With vigor. Amorously. They had shared a gentle, loving kiss behind a tree, their fingers entwined, hips canting into one another; Then they were nuzzling, necks were being kissed, noses rubbing, foreheads pressed together. It was soft and gentle. It was beautiful. It was tender and sweet. Everything that is Dean. His beautiful Dean. 

 

Until John happened upon them. John had ripped them apart and snarled the most vile, noxious, devastatingly cruel, utterly hateful, putrid words Castiel has ever heard, at Dean. Castiel nearly smote John on the spot, but Dean had not wanted that, so John remained.

 

Shortly thereafter, shit hit the fan, as Dean would say. Everything happened in rapid succession. The black dog had bitten Dean’s hip and dug its claw into his upper thigh, dragging Dean away. Castiel was terrified; Chased after them as quick as he was physically able. Unfortunately, he wasn’t fast enough, as the black dog had dragged a rapidly bleeding Dean out onto a frozen lake. Just as he and Sam had come upon the lake, so had John. Unsure of just how frozen the lake was, Sam and him had come to a halt debating the best way to get to Dean. John, however, ran out onto the lake, and for a brief moment, both Castiel and Sam, had, foolishly, thought John had cared about his eldest son; They were wrong. John cared only for the hunt, and shot the black dog, triggering a heartwrenching set of events.

Bullets had hit not only the black dog, but the ice as well. Which, of course, broke. The black dog struggled, powerful claws grabbing Dean’s stomach for purchase as it fell through the ice into the lake, dragging Dean down with him as Castiel and Sam had watched in horror. The cries of agony and fear from both Dean and the black dog were nearly indistinguishable. Castiel had rushed out onto the ice and dove in. Thank the heavens he was able to find Dean quickly.

 

Dean was so cold. So, so, cold, and Castiel wasted no time in flying back to the hotel, cradling Dean to his chest.

 

An utterly miserable day resulting in Dean, as always, being the one to take the brunt of it all. 

 

Castiel thoughts turn back to Dean’s father. Castiel hates the man. Dead-beat dad indeed. The man is a monster who is slowly killing his own son with his cruelty. The things he says to Dean, the insults he hurls are so utterly vile and filled with such enmity; It is toxic, and it wounds Dean to his very soul. Castiel feels it all through their bond, and all that hurt Dean feels―hides―is what has Castiel ready to smite, smite, smite. 

Castiel stares up at the stained ceiling, frowning. Sigh. Being unable to heal Dean had broken his heart. And he couldn’t heal Dean because Dean had not wanted him―an angel―hurt. Dean saw the trap before Castiel did and Dean, being the self-sacrificing, righteous, selfless, man he is, Dean had pushed him out of harms way. Huff. Scowl. Dean did not want Castiel hurt. _Dean._ The spell would not have affected Cas, but Dean…Dean didn’t care. Dean didn’t want _anything_ , even a hangnail, to happen to Castiel. 

Righteous indeed. Castiel sighs softly and folds his arms behind his head, wistful smile tugging the corners of his mouth as he thinks of Dean, his Dean. Self sacrificing, Dean. Always thinking of others, Dean. It’s endearing really, but when Dean’s health is at stake, such reckless behavior that endangers Dean, is entirely unacceptable. Dean has been through enough pain, physically, emotionally, mentally, sexually,to last a billion lifetimes. It stops now.

Dean should not have had to suffer any of it. The worst is that Dean has been manipulated, been beaten into thinking he deserves all of it. Castiel feels the rage boil up to the surface the more he thinks about how badly the brainwashing, gaslighting, and conditioning was for Dean to measure his self-worth by how well he takes care of Sam and how good a hunter he is. John, and Sam both are responsible. Castiel knows _everything_ Dean has been through. He has seen it all, for Castiel has been watching his human charge for a very long time. And, Castiel recreated Dean. Knows his human intimately. More intimately than anyone has ever known Dean; More than anyone will ever know Dean, or anyone for that matter. How anyone could ever hurt such a gentle, beautiful, kind, generous soul is something Castiel will never comprehend.

 

It physically hurts him knowing how very little Dean thinks of himself. How very little worth Dean attributes to himself. That Dean places himself last to everyone and anyone, everything and anything. 

 

Castiel aches for Dean. In every way there is, so he has made it top priority to change how Dean sees himself. To prove to Dean that Dean is beautiful and selfless and good and worth so much more than he can imagine.

“Hm,” Castiel hums softly to himself and turns over, nuzzling his face into Dean’s pillow. “Mmmm, Dean…silly Dean. Must you,” Yawn. “Must you always put your,” Yawn. “… needs last? Silly,” He breathes in Dean’s scent and closes his eyes against the darkness. 

Darkness?! 

Darkness. 

“Dean!” Dean is not here. How could he…? _I must be more exhausted than I thought…That is no excuse. How could I not know Dean left?!_

Sitting up faster than the sheets can comprehend, Castiel narrows his eyes at the clock, the puffs of white linen waft down to settle in his lap; “Thirty-five minutes… after one ante… meridiem…” He scrutinizes every inch of their motel room. 

 

For some reason Castiel is not at all optimistic. 

 

Albeit the perpetuity of Winchester luck, or, the extraordinary fear, and helplessness he feels whenever Dean is out of his sight. 

 

Castiel washes his face with his hands, swings his legs over the edge of bed, and just sits; Palms pressed into the bed, leaning forward, he wiggles his toes, so completely lost in his thoughts, that he fails to notice the youngest Winchester storm into the room. 

“My father is an ASSHOLE!” Sam’s hands tangle in his mane and link together. He paces furiously in front of Cas, lost in his own thoughts as well. “I can’t believe him! Wait, yeah, yeah I can! He’s _always_ been such a fucking hard ass to us, but this… Cas, man…The shit he said,” He rubs his hands over his face, dragging them down to steeple over his opening mouth, pinching his bottom lip between his hands, folding them as in prayer, staring, unblinking in disbelief at the wall. “The way he was talking about you…” His voice is trembling along with his hands. “The things he said about Dean…. What he’d do… Cas, man… Damn it! I should have stayed awake after he left. I was just so tired and it was early, you know…I didn’t think... ”

Castiel slowly meets Sam’s eyes and cants his head. Confused. It’s all so foggy. Sam… Why is Sam in here? 

 

Castiel continues to observe Sam, squinting in thought, tips his head to the other side. Hm, interesting; Sam is frantic. Sam is frightened. Sam is a ball of nervous energy and Sam’s gesturing is progressing from wild to crazed…annnnnd Sam only gets this way over…

“DEAN!” The clouds have lifted, the fog dissipating into a terrifying clarity. Castiel rockets to his feet, sheets billowing upward and then down with his motion, exposing him in all his angelic glory(as Dean would say). 

“Gahhh, Cas!,” Sam, unable to _not_ look, _Man, Dean, I know that had to hurt. I had no clue Cas was hung like a damn Pegasus!_ does, blushing furiously, before averting his eyes and throwing up his hands, blocking the general area of Cas’…area. “Clothes, dude! Clothes!” Sam guffaws, suddenly amused as the mental image of Cas wrapped around Dean pops in his head. His big brother, self-imposed bad ass, big and tough, manly man Dean, the little spoon. Oh that is just priceless and he can’t wait to bust Dean’s balls about it. _I’ll bet Dean bottoms too. Ha!_

Castiel’s cheeks redden a bit. “My apologies, Sam.” With a thought, he’s dressed, and with a sigh, regrets the waste of Grace. “Where is Dean? He is no longer here. What is going on, Sam? Where is Dean? What did John say?” His tone is dark, laden with wrath. “What hap _pened_?” 

Cas has smite written all over his face, leaving Sam with the impression that Cas will do just that if anything has so much as left a particle of dust on Dean. Cas is officially on the warpath. 

 

Sam is irritating Castiel immensely. “What did he do, Sam?” Castiel inhales deeply; Focusing on the air filling his chest, slowly releasing, in and out, calm, he must be calm, emotionless if he is to find Dean. Tears however, heed him not. 

Sam renews his assault on the carpet, arms swing, fists clenching; He’s fucking fuming. “Shortly after we had taken care of Dean and went to bed…I, I’m assuming you guys were…sleeping?” Sam waggles his eyebrows at Cas, to which Cas rolls his eyes. “Dad woke me up―screaming,” Sam stops,realizing, for the first time, that Cas and his brother are, in fact, together, a couple, and smiles at Cas. “I’m really happy for you and Dean, Cas. I just want you to know that I am not homophobic, and that I fully support you and my brother. I already know you treat him right,” Wide grin. “I mean,”

“Sam,” Castiel finds the sound of Sam’s voice grating. Very grating. 

“I’ve known Dean was bi-sexual,well, since you’re an angel and Dean has always seemed to fall for who the person is, not that he’s ever fallen for anyone as hard as he has for you,”

“Sam,”

“...so I guess that means he’s pansexual, actually, huh. Yeah, yeah, that fits. But, uh, what was I saying…oh, yeah, it’s about fucking time, man; You guys were driving me crazy—” 

“SAM!” 

Sam is startled out of his rambling, and sheepishly, rubs the back of his neck. _Probably should have stayed on the path. Cas is… Wow…. He… Damn. Cas is almost in tears. Cas isn’t just pissed. He’s scared. Shit. That scares the shit out of me._ “I’m sorry, Cas.”

Cas’ shoulders slump and he looks away, lips tightening to a thin line, hands clenching and unclenching into fists. “No, I am sorry, Sam…I, I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.” Castiel looks away, closes his eyes. Deep breath. Opens his eyes, turns back to Sam, smiling sadly. “Thank you for your support… I just..” Watery cerulean meets soft hazel. 

“I know, Cas. I know. Sorry,” Sam places his hand on Castiel’s shoulder hoping to give some comfort to his distressed friend. Before he continues, he smiles, giving Cas’ shoulder a squeeze in a further gesture of support. “The bartender just called me, woke me up, actually said he was calling the cops on my dad for starting a brawl. And do you know why? Because Dad just can't help himself. Dad was furious this morning. He was screaming: ‘Fucking fagg—” 

 

Dean suddenly consumes Castiel. Grace and blood and muscle and thought and bond, everything is Dean. Castiel is pitching forward, eyes blown wide open and he’s cutting Sam off ― _“Castiel…help...”_ ―with a gasp, then a sharp cry of pain before dropping to his knees. _“Dean.”_ Dean is in terrible pain…he’s even more hurt…Cas doubles over and holds his stomach. Dean is reaching out to him with an onslaught of emotions and agony. Dean used his full name. This is bad. So bad. The pain…the pain is staggering in its intensity. Castiel curls in on himself, suddenly unable to draw breath. He can’t hear, he can’t breathe…and then…nothing. 

 

For a moment Sam just stares, gaping, at Castiel. He has no clue what happened. Why Cas is on the floor in tears, gasping for air. Shit. Cas.Tears. Sam kneels beside the angel and places his hand on Cas’ back. “Cas, man, Cas, what is it? Are you alright?”

 

Castiel gains control and stands, paying no mind to Sam’s gesture of comfort. There is no time. “We have to go.” Castiel rushes to the door, not waiting.

 

Sam blinks and shakes his head. _What in the hell?_ “Cas? Cas what’s up?What happened?”

 

“We do NOT have time, Sam! Dean is going to die if we do not leave Now.”

 

“Dean what? Wait…what? Where is he? The bar? How do you know he will die?”

 

Castiel storms over to Sam, eyes hard, Grace on fire and visible in his eyes. “Sam, Dean and I share a profound bond. That bond is fully is open. Dean called to me, spoke to me. He said: ‘Castiel…help…’ ” Castiel’s expression of ‘You good? Can we leave? Make enough sense? And he is not waiting. Castiel turns and storms out the door racing down the road, headed to the bar, scanning for Dean.

 

Sam searches Castiel for further explanation,watching his retreating form with growing unease, until he finally understands. “Shit! Cas! Wait up! I’m coming!” Sam takes off, trotting up beside Cas.

 

Castiel stops and looks around. The bar is roughly a quarter mile away, with several shops lining either side of the road before tapering off into forests to Castiel’s left, and an abandoned farmstead on his right. The motel is next to the farmstead. _Where are you, Dean?_ Castiel, for some reason is drawn to the large, dilapidated barn. He starts to walk toward it, but a large hand wrapped around his bicep halts him in his tracks. Sam. 

 

“Cas? Where are you going?” Sam releases Cas in favor of the pockets of his Carhart. 

 

“I,” Cas lifts his arms up, staring at the barn. “I don’t,” His arms fall to his side as he turns to face Sam, deflated, “I do not know, I…there’s just…there’s just something about this barn…” Castiel squats down, pressing into his eyes with the heels of his palms, desperately seeking out Dean in their bond. 

“Yeah,” Nods. “Yeah, it’s creepy, definitely. We should check the bar first. That's where Dad would have gone, and that's where Dean will be,” Sam draws out the words at length, brow knitted together as he watches Cas.

 

“He’s hurt―hurting―I…Dean…”

 

Sam shifts his stance, opens his mouth to speak, thinks better of it, then changes his mind again. “Uh, hey, hey, Cas?”

 

“Hm?” Castiel is slow in getting up, and even slower dragging his gaze , heavy, distracted, to meet the curious expression of the youngest Winchester.

 

“Did, did uh, did Dean really use your, uh…full name?”

Inexplicably sad, Castiel rolls his shoulders, wings itching to unfurl and stretch, provide comfort. “Yes. And he spoke it in Enochian. He is very badly hurt, Sam.” Turning away from Sam and the barn, Castiel starts walking back toward the bar, scanning the pavement, sides of the road, alleyways―everywhere―for his mate. “I can feel it. I think the bar is waste of time,”

“It's the best place to start though." Sam shivers. "It’s fucking freezing out here, man; We should’ve taken the Impala. Brrrrbbbrbbrrrr,” Shuddering away the cold, along with hitchhiking snowflakes, Sam tears his eyes from Cas, unable to look into the very depths of true heartache any longer.He kicks at a chunk of road filthy snow, failing to notice that Cas has put distance between them. Sam scrapes his boot on the pavement, making shapes into old and new snow, thinking on what Dean’s plea in Enochian means. _Dean can speak fluent Enochian? Shit. I can’t even do that. When was he gonna tell me about it?_ “So should we go back and get the Impala, Cas? Caaa…? Shit!” Sam races to catch up to Cas.

――――――――――――――――――――――

 

“Wake the fuck up, faggot!” John snarls at his unconscious child. He’s eager to straight’n the princess out, but Dean needs to be awake to grasp this lesson. 

 

The barn here will serve his purpose just fine. He missed it walking to the bar, but then again, he was shitfaced. He’s sobered up quite a bit since then. Couldn’t let Dean know that though. As he was dragging his little princess back to the motel, he happened to catch sight of the old barn. Pleasant surprise. Damn thing was a bitch to get into, though, locked up tighter than a virgins pussy, but there ain’t nothing John can’t get into. ’Cept maybe Dean’s head, he thinks. At any rate he’s got Dean setup just how he wants him. All prepped for his lesson. John’s seen this particular form of punishment in action, up close and personal.

 

And it worked. 

 

John will be damned if his eldest is gonna stay gay. Shit ain’t right and it happening on John’s watch. He did not raise Dean to be weak and a cock sucker. He raised Dean to be strong, to be a ladies man. Not no damn fruitloop. And a monster fucking one at that. Fucking kid left him no choice. “I said,” John kicks the leg of the chair, jostling Dean.

 

Dean groans.

 

John kicks again. “Wake the fuck up!”

 

Dean moans, muscles twitching, hurting him. He tries to open his eyes, but the damn things must be taped shut for all the good it does him. A sudden jolt has his eyes flying open, and a flurry of expletives between hissing and gasping. It’s a process, getting himself under control enough to take stock of his situation:

Tied to a chair. 

Properly. 

Awesome. 

Bound at the ankles, calves, wrists , stomach….ugh…A chair with no bottom…

Oh you have _got_ to be kiddin’ me…

He’s naked from the waist down. What the fuck… His shirt is pulled up a bit from the rope, gifting Dean with quite a view. His abs are twitching and jumping, each twitch pumping more blood out from his wound. He pouts. Damn. Love trail of lovely light blonde hair is matted down with blood. Blood that has pooled in his pubic hair. Shudder. Blood and Little Dean do not mix. Memories. No. He’s scared. No denying it. Blood has soaked his lower body. Remnants of his toilet paper bandage job look ridiculous now. Seems like a lifetime ago he was sitting in the bar’s bathroom, make bandages out of toilet paper.

 

Dean can feel his father standing behind him. The calm before the storm. Before his dad’s anger takes a life of its own and Dean ends up, well, not anywhere good, that’s for damn sure.

 

It’s fucking downright terrifying, and it scares the shit outta him. Hell, his dad in any state scares the shit outta him. Always has too.This though… His dad hasn’t acted this strange in a long time. An’that never means anythin’ good. He leans back in the chair, tips his head back, looking for and not finding his dad. This sucks. Instincts have him squirming, testing his bindings. Very bad idea. His vision starts to swim, glittering bright and painful, like water reflecting the sun. Such a bad idea. Painful reminder that he’s got a fucked up back now on top of everything else.

 

Just great.

 

The pain forces his head to drop and he stares at his lap again. Huh. No jeans. No boxer-briefs.

Oh yeah.  
He’s fucking _naked from the waist down_.Tied to a chair. With no seat. Which is in itself extremely painful. He snaps his eyes shut and squeezes tight.

Oh no….nononononononononononooooooo……..

Please.

Dean forces himself to open his eyes again. It’s dark, save for a sliver of pinkish-orange, the color of a snow storm, forming a slat of light rapidly filling with snowflakes and swirls of dust. Out of that snowy dust stalks his father: Puffs of hot air escaping anger flared nostrils, eyes overflowing with cold hate.

No.

 

“School’s in session, dude.”John cheerfully informs Dean.

 

School? What the fuck?

No, no, no, no. There is something not quite right about his―John―tonight. Suddenly Dean is overcome with a flashback: He’s fourteen and pretty, wearing his mom’s dress and perfume( John saved from the fire). John made Dean put mascara on. Not that Dean even needed it. He knows he has ridiculously long eyelashes, and how girly that is. He knows his lips are plump and girly too. He knows because he’s been picked on for it. He’s in front of a mirror in the bathroom of yet another bar and his dad is stroking his shoulders and arms, nuzzling his head. Dean is confused and terrified. He squirms. He’s so scared. Wants to run like hell. But…but this is the most affection and the closet **EVER** Dean has come to getting a hug. But it feels wrong. Soooooo fucking wrong. It’s not comfort…it’s weird and he’s really scared…he didn’t want to do any of this. He told his dad so, but that had earned him the buckle end of belt and the promise of more, but on his _front_ if he didn’t comply. That kinda pain on his chest and stomach…he couldn’t…no way. That makes this on him. Dean’s fault. As usual.

 

As quick as it came, the flashback is gone and Dean is a sweating, bleeding, panicking, terrified, pitiful, agonized, mess and he fucking whimpers god damn it all to fucking hell.

 

So Dean tries, tries so hard, so, so, so fucking hard not to sound weak, pitiful, but it’s an inevitability; He is _hurt_ and it _hurts_ and he can’t help it and it always makes the beatings so much worse. “…D-Dah…ddd, ples…’m’urt…” Begging and losing his voice now, “…b-bad…” so not good. 

 

Gasping for air. 

 

Can’t breathe right.

Somethings wrong. 

Think.

Think,think, think…

It’s so hard to think clearly.

SHIT.

SHIT ON A STICK.

Flail chest.

Gotta be.

He knows enough to know paradoxical breathing is extremely bad, wrong, and that’s how he’s kinda sort not really breathing. _Fuck, I…I feel awful…_

Gotta stay still. “Dih, duh, ddddaaad…wh’t’r…” Cough. Static fireworks behind his eyes. Blood on his lips. _That_ did not feel right. Things shifted.

Blood.

Dean is coughing up blood and it’s running out of his mouth, down his chin; More is streaming from his broken nose, which is yet one more obstacle to overcome if he has any shot at breathing. He’s hot and sticky. “…rrr’ya…du’win?” His head drops, chin to chest and Dean notices his thigh for the first time. It’s bandaged. Huh. Did he get bit? _Why can’t I remember?_ He looks up at his father to ask if he knows, only to end up flinching from the hatred he reads in John’s eyes, spewing from his commanding officer’s mouth. All directed at him. 

 

“You’re a faggot, Dean, a homo, ya understand that? I did _not_ raise you that way. I am so fucking ashamed of you. You disgust me. How, Dean? How? How did you end up this way? I know it ain’t my fault, ‘cause I am a **man**. A man. Ya…ya even know what that is, son―son… ya ain’t my boy. Men are straight, Dean. Men do not fuck other men. You don’t stick yer dick in a mans asshole! You don’t kiss men! It’s wrong, Dean. Wrong. I mean, how…how stupid are you? Ya ever even read the Bible, Dean?”

Dean can’t help it. He snickers as best he can at that. Cas is an angel. And hell, he pretty much lived through Revelations.

John backhands Dean. “Laugh it up, faggot. Why do you think your monster Fell, huh? Your ‘angel’,” John makes a big production using air quotes. “Fell, not for you, dumbass, but for being a homo. Don’t like that, do ya? Hit a sore spot? I know all about it. Know’bout that handprint too. An’ that’s next on my list,”

The pain Dean feels from the backhand is nothing compared to the fury he feels when his father insults his angel. Panic fuels adrenaline and Dean is struggling as hard as can to rip his dad to pieces as Castiel’s handprint on Dean’s should is threatened.

“Ha, don’t like that, huh? Well guess what, kiddo? Your mother wouldn’t be happy about you being queer. Oh, you didn’ know that, did you? Oh yeah, Mary thinks homosexuality is a sin. Just like her prick of a father. But at least we all agree on that. An’on top of all that, you’re fucking a monster. You are sticking your fucking prick in a giant birds asshole,” 

 

Dean feels John’s words like a punch to the gut, driving the wind right outta him. Fury and fear and shame and agony spin round and round and round, leaving him strung out and weak. “N-N-Nooooo,” He can barely shake his head; It’s all too much…it’s all too much. It hurts. It hurts so badly he’s choking on it. It crawls up from the pit of his stomach and burns all the way to his eyes, to expose him, leave him vulnerable for more. The hurt is followed by insurmountable anger. His angel ain’t no monster. “N’nnn…tttt, m’ster,” 

 

In one quick, long stride, John is in front of Dean, grabbing Dean’s blood coated cheeks and squeezing them together, puckering Dean’s lips. “Shut your goddamn mouth, and be a good little soldier, ya goddamned girl.” 

 

Tears stream down Dean’s face, watering down the blood. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. John squeezes harder. Dean squirms, fights to breathe, speaking through puckered lips glistening with his blood. “Nuh-no,”

 

“You little shit; Now you’re gonna forget about that monster a yours and learn a fuckin’ lesson. And you’re gonna keep learning until it sinks in. I was taught this from another hunter; Not sure where he learned,” Releasing Dean’s face, John turns and walks out of sight for a moment. “But it works. Works real well,”

 

Dean tracks him like a cornered animal, panting.

 

When John returns back in Dean’s sight, John’s holding one of Dean’s blood soaked socks. There’s something inside his sock. Dean’s heart skips a beat and he starts to panic, because he’s got a pretty good idea what’s inside his sock.

 

John watches the gears turn in Dean’s head, grinning venomously once Dean figures it out, the fear kicking in, “You got it in one, cocksucker: billiard balls. See, I tied your legs, your arms, and your stomach, to the chair. Notice how your balls and dick, which, by the way, who’d a thunk it, Dean, ya got a big ol’dick. Least I can be proud of something about you. What was I saying? Oh, see how your scrotum and cock are just hanging free?” John starts to swing the billiard ball filled sock back and forth.

 

Back and forth.

 

Back…

 

…forth…

 

…and back…

 

…and forth…

 

 _Nononononoonononononooooono, oh god, oh no, oh no, please, please, please, god, oh god, no, no, no…_ Dean’s eyes widen with terror. Adrenaline has him squirming and struggling. He can’t help the squeak of “No,” that flies out of his mouth.

 

Back and forth…

 

“Oh yes,” John licks his lips, pupils blown wide with anticipation. Back and forth… He’s excited. The screams Dean is gonna make…he can’t help getting hard at the thought. For a brief moment, some part of John’s brain acknowledges how fucked up this all is, but any trace of human empathy burned on the ceiling with his wife a long ass time ago. “Be honest with me, Dean or it’s only gonna be worse. How many times?” Back,

 

And forth…

 

Dean is stumped. Tormented. _How many times what?_ He stares, dumbfounded, up at John before he goes back to tracking the sock. “Huh…m’ny’t’ms…wha…tt?” Paralyzed, petrified.

 

Back and forth…

 

Dean’s eyes haven’t left the sock.

 

Back…and back…and all the way back…

 

Dean’s eyes go wide.  
Baaaaaaack…  
…And forth. “Wrong answer, dumbass,” John swings the sack forward and slams it into his son’s scrotum and penis.

 

Dean screams.

And screams. Rabid with agony.

Screams until his vocal chords give and he’s convulsively swallowing their blood.

 

There it is. John is rock solid and nearly cums right there. Dean screams unlike anyone or anything John has ever heard. It’s primal, feral. Guttural and high-pitch and so full of abject misery,despair, anguish, and excruciating levels of agony there is no name for. It’s pure terror, horror, pain and suffering. And John hates himself for loving it;Being addicted to it since Dean was a child. Even before Mary died. 

 

Time loses all meaning for Dean. A sock full of pool balls hitting his balls and dick is absolutely excruciating, beyond what the words pain and agony could ever hope to describe. His world shatters into fragments of white so bright, there is nothing left. No color. No sound. Just silently shattering glass. Fire and ice consume him, dance on and in and through and over his abdomen. It’s wet and hot and full. He’s so full. There’s pressure with the pain. A fullness, pressure-pain that twists and twists and twists, then stabs with angry jolts. He’s run through and pulled back. 

 

It doesn’t end. Over and over this pain. Pressure and pain and fullness and swelling and heat and ice and then a warmth spreads down his legs, drip, drip, drip, drip, dripping…NO! GOD NO! Not there…not there…But…his toes are wet and sticky. Vomits. _“Castiel, please…help…”_

 

“Jesus Christ, Dean. You fucking pissed yourself. Fucking so pathetic and weak. Such a fucking disappointment. How many times, Dean? How many times did you and that monster fuck? He fuck ya with his feathers too?”

 

Dean couldn’t answer even if he wanted to. And he doesn’t. He really, really doesn’t. And that’s as coherent as he’s able to be. The remainder of his fleeting lucidity is, unfortunately devoted, in its entirety to feeling the pummeling of his balls and dick again and again and over and over and over, and, and, it hurts really bad, really bad, so bad, so, so bad. _“Oh my god Castiel it hurts. It really hurts…please help me, Castiel.”_

 

The utter agony of it’s so intense, Dean can actually feel his balls retreat upwards. That’s why he feels full. Oh….oh he’s gonna be sick. PainPainPainPainPainPain! Vomit and dark blood bursting from his lips and he can’t breathe and everything hurts and it’s all so wrong and he’s so full and hot and sticky and he just wants to pass out because then he won’t hurt so fucking badly and hurt so badly and hurt so badly and he’s so confused and he wants to cry and he wants Cas and pain can’t even hold a candle to this level of agony and that doesn’t make sense unless it does and Cas, Cas, Castiel,Castiel, Castiel, Cas, Cas, CasCasCasCCaasssCccccaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhssssssssCaaaaasssssss……. 

――――――――――――――――――――――

Castiel is fuming. He stalks out of the bar, wings manifesting, incinerating the snowbanks flanking the bar entrance as he storms out. After several protesting rolls of his shoulder, his wings finally retreat, slow in disappearing, as it goes against his very nature to not have them out when his _mate_ is in danger. He feels Sam trailing behind him like a comet tail, and for some reason, that only serves to incite Castiel’s rage further. “I told you after I saw the barn this was an exceptional waste of time we do NOT HAVE, SAM,”

 

Sam has never, not really, been scared of Cas before.

 

At least, until today. 

 

Right now, Castiel is angelic wrath incarnate. He’s going to kill, Sam is certain of it. And Sam really can’t have Cas killing his dad. No matter what John has done, he’s still Dean and his dad. Even though Sam could strangle him half the time, John is their father. But Cas, shit. Right now Cas is a walking bolt of lightening. If Sam wasn’t just as worried for Dean he’d try and stall…

 

“Keep up, Sam, or _I will_ leave you behind,” Castiel is double checking everywhere he checked on the way to the bar, just to be sure. He wants to fly, but he can’t afford to miss anything. 

 

“Cas, Cas look,” Sam jogs up alongside ‘Wrath Incarnate’, “I’m sorry, I am, I didn’t know the bar would be a dead end. At least we know they were here…”

 

Castiel whips around, eye’s bright, bright cerulean, crackling with grace electrified, “Yes, we do. And we know that your,” Spits, “father _dragged my mate out after attacking him!_ What is wrong with him? Sam, if dared to hurt Dean any―” Castiel goes silent before his eyes cloud over with quite literally, blinding agony, and he falls to his knees, hands flying to his crotch. The only sound is the crunch of Cas’ knees , followed by Sam’s into the hardened snow. 

 

“Cas! Cas! What…is, is it Dean? What’s going on? Wha-aahhh!” Sam is knocked back as Cas abruptly leaps to his feet.

 

Without looking back, Castiel commands. “ **MOVE!** Barn. Now.” In less than a thought, Castiel is in front of the barn. His wings unfurl to their full span, flight primaries stiffening into razor sharp swords. 

 

He blows the remainder of the roof off along with the doors, and draws lightning from the snowstorm. Grace is now electricity curling around his body. Castiel is going to rain down the full wrath of Heaven upon John Winchester.

 

Dean’s good eye, the not swollen shut one stares with open relief, awe, pride, and love at his angel. _“You came for me…”_

Castiel pulses strong love/comfort/love through their bond. _“I would die for you. I always come for you, Dean. Being my mate changes nothing.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah...this came to me. Just another excuse to beat up the one I love while writing 3 other fics. LMFAO. I'm crazy.
> 
> This takes place somewhere in my Fearless verse. Take it as you will. 
> 
> I really hope you guys dig it.
> 
> Really hope.
> 
> For those of you awesome people who are awaiting chapter 11 of Fearless, I am working on it. There's just sooooo much stuff to organize. Ugh. But I AM getting there. 
> 
> This fic here is gonna be a bad one. For Dean, anyway. But then FLUFF! Yeah. I'm cray cray.


End file.
